


the supernova of dying stars

by Ro29



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Eldritch Anakin Skywalker, Fix-It, Force-Sensitive Shmi Skywalker, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Not cool Force, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shmi deserves an award and happiness and a hug, Slavery, That's Not How The Force Works, The Force as Eldritch Horror (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro29/pseuds/Ro29
Summary: “I did something wrong didn’t I?”Shmi stares at the coiling limbs that shift every few seconds, meets one of the thousands of eyes on her and she sighs.“Yes, you did baby.”(or; Anakin Skywalker is half-mortal and half something else, in this world that means something.In this world, that changes things)
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 35
Kudos: 314





	the supernova of dying stars

Shmi—who has been ripped from her family just as her mother was and her mother before her and will never know what her Family name is—looks at the bird that flutters freely away and steals its name for her own.

She bundles that precious hope up and fashions it into a name.

Names are important, Names are powerful.

The Grandmothers tell them that they should always call something by it’s true Name.

So Shmi uses hands that are already scared and calloused to give herself a name that will hold the hope that is as precious and rare as water and she pushes anger down, down, _down_.

A slave is not allowed to be angry, even though sometimes that is all it feels like they are.

When hope leaves, the only thing left is the teeth gnashing, bone deep, blood boiling anger. And it is that anger that can kill you. Because the little chip buried under their skin nurtures that fiery hate, that anger, and dries up all the water-like hope until it explodes and the bomb that keeps you enslaved is your end.

Shmi Skywalker spends most of her life quietly furious. But anger is draining and the life of a slave even more so and so she is quiet and she is watchful and she is careful.

She teaches the little ones in the slave quarters how to do the same, she teaches them how to fold up their fire bright anger into something safer, something easy to tuck away and cover.

It is difficult, but it keeps them as safe as they will probably ever be.

It is not enough, but then again the Masters rarely need a reason to be cruel.

* * *

Shmi Skywalker is a star, a shiny thing hidden beneath a fog, the desert wind calls to her and the twin sons and brother moons sing to her in their cruel wistful apologetic tones.

And she has spent most of her life so firmly hidden and hiding that you would never be able to tell. It is one of her best talents, and it keeps her alive.

* * *

Her Master sends her out into the desert one day, and something in her chest _clicks_ and trembles and the twin sons burn bright and sing their joy as she begins her journey. The desert screams and the sand comes in waves and in the middle of it all, star-bright Shmi who might one day walk free stands, and she _burns_.

Her chest aches and tears apart and presses back together, and something all consuming and supernova bright brushes her cheek and _grins_ with sharpened teeth. The breath catches in her throat and she can only stare at it, beautiful, terrible and burning.

There is something singing, screaming, high-pitched and with a thousand voices and her head buzzes and spins.

When the sandstorm passes and the howls are gone and the desert is silent, the wind blows once, gently, almost lovingly, and Shmi could swear she felt someone, _something,_ kiss her cheek.

When she starts showing, she refuses to tell anyone who the father is.

_There is no father_. She tells them all, and they respect it, for she is a slave woman and when someone says there is no father you listen and you respect it, because it means that you will not like the answer.

The baby she carries within her reaches into her head that night and tilts their head just a bit too far to the side in question as they drag the memory forwards.

It hurts and she chokes through the pain as she cradles them, tucks them into her arms and rocks them.

They whimper with the rasp of predators and curl up tight in her arms, screaming their apology in a way that overpowers everything.

She shushes them gently and answers their question by sending a push of _dangerous_ towards them.

They look up at her, eyes wide and as large as space, uncomprehending.

(She feels like could fall in if she looked at them for too long)

And Shmi, in her mind with her unborn baby, shakes with something like determination.

(Her child does not understand danger, does not know that they are fearsome and can hurt people. Her child does not understand that others will destroy them without a second thought for simply existing. She did not ask for this child, but already she loves them with everything she is.)

Shmi spends every night of her pregnancy teaching her supernova child with wild space in their eyes and who screams and burns without effort how to be quiet and to be gentle and how to _hide_.

(There is no universe in which Shmi Skywalker does not love her son. But there are universes where hiding is not something necessary, where she does not impress upon him from the beginning of his development that to hide is to be safe, that you must be gentle and quiet. And the Force, great and terrifying and _powerful_ , threaded through space and time itself, smiles at it’s nova child with too many mouths and sharpened teeth. The Universe spins on, tilted slightly on it’s axis and a shatterpoint fractures and shifts.)

* * *

The Masters are not _quite_ kind, they are never kind, but Shmi is no longer worked quite as hard, she is punished less and far less severely. She is no longer carrying that bone deep exhaustion with her all the time.

When she sleeps at night and falls into the strange not-there place where her unborn baby exists and gets to hold her wonderful celestial child, she knows it is because of them. Her child is protecting her even as she tries to help them protect themself.

She prays she is enough, she prays she is doing the right thing, she prays that they listen to her.

Her baby looks at her with a thousand eyes that are too many colours at once and gorgeous and frowns with a mouth just a little wrong. And her _fear-worry-concern-love_ is soothed by an overwhelming wave, that is so much gentler than the first time—her baby learns so _fast_ —of _protective-love-adoration_.

She sighs and presses a gentle kiss to skin made of stardust and fire that isn't really there.

* * *

Sometimes, rarely, a Jedi is so attuned to the Living Force that they can feel when a star is born or dies; in the event that the Force is clear, they’re close enough, and they have enough of their shields down.

It is not something that happens often. But there is an account of it.

The Jedi Knight (dead now), told of how it felt a few times afterwards, but only the first time they told the story, still lying in the medbay and awed, is the most accurate.

_“It was a song of constant birth and death screaming in my ear, it was as if every atom of myself was attuned to every atom coming into being and being destroyed within that single star. It was great and burning and I was small and insignificant. It was pulling itself together and burning itself up and I was watching it. In that moment, I could see how it would end and shatter and explode inwards. It was beautiful, and it was horrible.”_

* * *

Somewhere in the universe, a baby is born laughing in a pitch human ears are not accustomed to, and a shatterpoint

_r̼̙̟͕̜_

_͖͔͇̱ ͖̱͈͇̻̲ ̭̟͔̻ ̹ ̟͎̲̣̺̦͖̞ ̳̰̘̘̮̥̯i̲̱̻̼ͅ ̯̟͕̺̙͎̼̝_

_̘̦ ͇̠̯͚̖͇̮ ̟̜̝͍̫̣̤͓̜ ̭̦̞͖͔ͅ ̻͙͈̥̭ ̙̻̖ ͔̳̦̠ ̬̝ ̤ ̹̠̺͎͔̼ ̗̯͕͍͇ ͖̠̬̺ ̫̲̘p̤̖̼͇ͅ_

_̪ ̺̻ ̱̫͕̬̳͖̝̹͉ ̜̥̜̘ ̹̘̟̞͙ ͕̺̞̙͖͖̺̣ ͇̼͓̤̻ ͙̲͎̗̗̰ ̠̻̣ ̥ ̺̯̻͔͕ ̤̮̥ ͕̞ ̪̖̜̭̼̼ ̪̩̻͉̥̺̰͓ͅ ̭̮̣̬͖̻̳ ͖ ̺̝̩̪ͅ ͉̲͈͙̟̟̠̯̘s̺̟_

_̪̞͍͔͇̥̦o̬̮͔̬̲͓ ͓̱̳̦p̬̲̥͖̘̙̺̬ ̱̗̱̠͇e͚ ̰͚͍̩n̹̟_

And Mace Windu collapses as the universe tears itself apart and reorients to the new overwhelming presence.

The Healers find nothing wrong with him even as his head splits and he is confined to the Medbay with the worst migraine he’s had since he was a child.

Every Jedi feels _something_ shift and brush against their sense, something that whispers _hello_ in a thousand different tongues and voices.

Some feel it stronger than others do, and when pressed they will describe something similar to the accounts given of a star's birth but, somehow, overwhelmingly, _more._

* * *

Sheev Palpatine smiles even as he shudders in terror, _hello there_ , he thinks and reaches out.

He does not leave his office for the rest of the day, feeling older and weaker than he ever has before.

This is something brilliant, something powerful, something _new_.

And he _wants_ it, in the way one always wants the newest, biggest, most dangerous weapon.

He plans.

* * *

Elsewhere, a Master and his Padawan stumble and exchange a look.

(The Master will be one of those who describe a star birth but brighter.)

It takes a second longer for the Padawan to reorient himself and when his Master asks what's wrong the Padawan shakes his head, dazed, “Nothing Master, I just,” He looks around in terror-tinged wonder, “I thought I heard someone call my name.”

(“It felt right,” Padawan Kenobi later tells the Council, “it felt like everything that I never knew I was missing suddenly clicked into place. Like finding the kyber crystal meant for you, that same sort of singing sense of _this is right_.”)

* * *

Beneath the notice of everyone, entwined so deeply into everything, the ever _changing-twisting_ power hums and cackles and _grins_. The mouth-that-isn’t is lined with teeth made of temples and the bones of long dead empires, bloodied by the veins of species that no longer exist.

_Mine_ , zee coos, wrapping zeerself tight around the many limbed and flickering presence of zeer’s child.

The babe laughs, the ringing sound tickling a nearby nebula into birthing a star and for just a second, just a miniscule moment in time. It rains on Tatooine.

The presence that lingers beneath the skin of the universe sighs and whispers, _Mine, my lovely child, beautiful, bright, half-me and here and half-Shmi and not._

Shmi Skywalker, tired and glowing star bright underneath the single breath of rain Tatooine has seen in decades, maybe centuries, shivers. Feels the veil of _something_ wrapped around her child and after a second smiles, her teeth bared in threat even while her eyes are kind.

“Yes, yours, but _mine_ too, and most importantly, _themselves_.” There is something terrifying about speaking back to an ancient thing that you don’t know of, but Shmi will do anything for her child. And if their other parent needs to be reminded of that, then she will risk it.

The veil dances around the baby and titters, amused. There’s the brush of wind against her cheek and a whispered kiss on her head in apology.

_Mine and yours and all themselves._ Zee agrees, _more than this, bright and **beautiful**_.

Shim Skywalker smiles down at her child. “Yes, they are.”

Her baby blinks open blue eyes tinged with the depths of the universe and the lights of stars and smiles, mouth open to show toothless gums. There is a flicker and thousands of tiny wings and limbs wrap gently around her as she presses a kiss to their head.

“Hello little Ani.”

* * *

Shmi spent most of her pregnancy teaching her baby how to hide, and it was useful, it helped. But there is only so much that works when sometimes Ani smiles too wide, with too many teeth, or when he slips and the sand reaches up and holds him.

There’s always a flicker of fear whenever the masters look too closely at Ani, and Shmi is terrified of what might be.

She tamps it down, composes herself and asks the being in her dreams for help. Zee never answers, sorrow and anticipation the only thing zee wraps her up in.

She’s terrified.

Whatever is coming, Ani must weather it and it makes Shmi want to rage and cry but she can’t afford to waste her water or be beaten and injured when she has to protect Ani. So she keeps her calm, wraps it up and sets it aside and tries to teach her little boy how to stay small and hidden and unnoticed, how to wrap himself up into nothing and slip between gazes.

He’s so bright, and he wants to help so badly that he never remembers to be as careful as he should.

He does things sometimes, says things, that make Shmi want to hold him tight in her arms and hide him away.

She is not scared of him, never, she held him before he was even a fully formed concept, she holds him even when he flickers between who he is and the body that anchors him in the world with her.

(One of his friends is sold and Shmi holds him as he shakes, as wings of fire and stardust, of metal and feathers, scaled and terrifying and gentle, flicker and tremble. The next morning the owner who sold them is found brain dead, eyes open wide, blood trickling down in a parody of tears.

Anakin’s eyes burn, face blank with the faintest frown.

He’s only three.

He tells Shmi that it’s okay, the master knows better now, Anakin showed him how much it hurt everyone that he sold Rue away.

Shmi doesn’t know what to say.

His other parent, when Shmi asks, does not answer.

She is not scared of him, but sometimes she is terrified of what he could do.)

She starts trying to teach him about morals, about the choices you have to make when you are more powerful than others. About how careful you should be, when you have the ability to hurt others.

Her baby is smart, he knows she’s upset about something.

“I did something wrong didn’t I?”

Shmi stares at the coiling limbs that shift every few seconds, meets one of the thousands of eyes on her and she sighs.

“Yes, you did baby.”

The air floods with _confusion-anger-entitlement-fear_ , Shmi swallows and breathes through the heavy veil, nearly chokes.

“But he _deserved_ it.” her supernova child hisses, shrieks, whispers, _screams_ into the singing of the air. Shmi closes her eyes, reaches a hand out. Her baby comes to her, wrapping limbs tight around her, burrowing deep into her embrace, sinking under her skin. Shmi opens her eyes, watches wings of fire and overwhelming light stutter and start and burn.

She places a kiss to his forehead, wraps her arms tight around him, lets her mind forget that the baseline-human body doesn’t have that many eyes or limbs, that she shouldn’t feel the burning of stars when she cups her baby’s neck.

“It’s not about _deserving_ Ani,” she whispers, cards her fingers through his whispie flyways, soothes the wings that are there and not until Ani shudders.

“But he was _bad_.” Ani sobs, not understanding for all of his otherness, for all of his power, not knowing and so, so young.

Shmi hums, “He was, he was a bad man for doing that to your friend, for owning slaves to begin with. And being angry about that is okay.” Ani sniffles and there’s a shuddering cry that sounds a little like something ancient’s dying breath. Shmi feels something warm slip out of her ear, smells the metallic tinge of blood in the air and she grips Ani tighter.

“You can be angry Ani, but don’t let the anger rule you. Anger brings only pain, do you understand baby? And when you have the power to hurt people you need to be careful.”

Ani trembles, “But I am, I _am_.”

Shmi closes her eyes, “Did you do it to hurt him?” she asks, hoping, praying that she can get through to him now, before something awful happens, the air is pressing against her chest, urging her on, singing with _important-important-teach-him-or-_ _pain-teach-him-or-danger_.

Ani pauses, shakes, burns bright with anger, “Was trynna _help_.”

Shmi holds him to her chest, shushes him, soothes him, pushes on, “Did you do it to hurt him Ani, or did you do it to help others? Because I don’t see how you helped anyone baby, all you did was hurt someone for taking something, for taking _someone_ , you love away from you.”

Ani stops, the fire dies, when Shmi looks down he’s curled himself up, anchored himself firmly with Shmi and tucked everything away until he is just her three year old child trying to understand why the world is cruel.

Ani cries and sobs, “don’ wanna be bad, don’ wanna be _bad_.” into her shoulder and Shmi holds him and doesn’t let her heart break. He needs to know this, but she wishes he didn’t have to learn so young.

She curls up to sleep that night with him wrapped safely in her arms, both of them drained.

The air is lighter, not quite right, but the sense of urgency is less now, and the dark tar that she hadn’t even noticed until now has been mostly cleared away.

They’ll need to come back to this later, she knows, but for now she sleeps and holds her baby close to her.

(In this universe, Anakin Skywalker learns that rage brings nothing good, that power means nothing if you are not kind, that burning the world for someone you love only brings pain.

In this universe, little Anakin learns that hurting people makes his mother sad.

The galaxy is better for it.)

**Author's Note:**

> listen i love eldritch force stuff okay, I had to.
> 
> This was fun ngl, no idea when the next chapter will be though XD.
> 
> Anyways, If you want to find me other places I have a [writing tumblr](https://rose-blooms-red.tumblr.com) and a [fandom tumblr](https://themessofthecentury.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please come yell at me about Star Wars and DC!


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